


I want to go home

by Hypatia_66



Series: A wartime childhood [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Kiev, Orphanage, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22332061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair. Prompts: home, blueA child of war in Kiev finds refuge, but just wants to go home and find his family...
Series: A wartime childhood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702435
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	I want to go home

“I want to go home,” the boy repeated, shivering from a scrubbing in cold water, and his shapely little head being shaved to get rid of lice.

“You have to stay here now. We will look after you, find you a new family.”

“I don’t want a new family.”

“You’re only eight years old. You cannot look after yourself.”

“I will find my family.”

The young orphanage assistant was about to say more but caught herself up. Why was she arguing with a child? She looked at him: under-sized but sturdy, self-possessed … only eight years old but arguing firmly, without childish tears or tantrums.

“I can’t let you,” she said. “It’s freezing, you’ll die out there.” But this kid, scarcely out of babyhood, was older than his years; she knew he would try to get away. “You must stay… stay till it gets warmer at least...”

The boy looked up at her and now seeing reluctant sympathy, his lip quivered.

“What’s your name?” The boy shook his head, his lips tightening again.

“My little brother Nikolai is like you. I’ll call you Kolya,” she said. He stiffened. “Is that your name?”

Again, the boy shook his head, but she saw it had meant something. “Come, you’d like something to eat, wouldn’t you?”

That certainly meant something. His eyes lit, but when she took his hand he shrank from her. “Come, Kolya. There’s kasha.” She tried again and this time he allowed her to hold his hand as he trailed beside her to the kitchens.

It was late and all the other children had been put to bed. There was no cooked food left, so the young woman found a pan, took a scoop of buckwheat and cooked it herself, watched by blue eyes that were too big for his face. There was only a little salt to make it palatable, no milk or honey, but it would fill his belly and help him to sleep.

She watched as he ate and when he finished, saw his head droop on his chest as weariness took him. He scarcely noticed when she took him up in her arms, just murmured something she couldn’t quite hear. He was light, much too light. She could feel his bones through the thin clothes that had replaced the filthy garments he had arrived wearing. Oh, these children of war…

<><>

The crying of other children disturbed his nightmare and Kolya woke shivering. He found himself in unfamiliar clothes in an unfamiliar narrow bed, under two thin blankets. Cautiously he looked around and saw lines of beds with other shaven-headed occupants – impossible to tell who was a girl, who a boy.

A rough, angry voice was heard. He saw them all leap out of bed, and sat up as a red-faced woman marched down the room. “You! What are you doing still in bed? Get up at once!” she shouted at him. Fearfully, he slipped out from under the covers and stood like the others beside it. “New aren’t you? Name?”

Remembering what the woman had called him last night, he whispered, “Kolya.”

“Kolya what?” she snapped.

Kolya, comrade nurse.”

Exasperated, the woman slapped him and snorted, “Stupid boy. Your name!”

Thinking quickly, he said, “Kuryatnik.” It had been the postman’s name.

“Patronymic?”

Unable to think of anything better, he said, ‘Ill’ich’.

She wrote it on her dormitory list and turned. “Line up, march!” she shouted. The children got into line and followed her, with Kolya bringing up the rear. They straggled into the dining room where they were given more kasha, unsweetened and without milk, but there was hot water to drink.

No-one spoke. They ate quickly, without style or manners, fearing it would be taken from them before they had finished. It was a sensible strategy: they were given very little time before being ordered to leave. Outside it was snowing so for the moment the children were permitted to remain indoors. Kolya sat down and contemplated his situation. He had barely survived without a thick coat or hat. He would have to wait, but he would also watch for an opportunity to get away.

<><>

The days stretched endlessly, featurelessly, tediously. Children who had coats played outside, and sometimes Kolya followed, just to run around for a while even though his flesh turned red then blue with the cold. When it began to turn white, he went back inside and curled into a ball till his blood warmed again. He found the pain of it kept him from giving up.

Then came a day when the young woman who had first taken him in brought a woollen coat and knitted hat. One of the children had died in the night. “These are for you,” she said. “Vova won’t need them now.”

They were too big for him, but they kept his bare legs warmer for longer, and covered his distinctive hair, now growing again. It meant he could stand near the gate and attract less notice. He had also noticed that if you looked resigned and kept still, no-one paid any attention to you. Fighting or arguing meant not only a beating but constant observation.

When the snowstorm began, it quickly became a blizzard and the children were called in. Kolya was about to follow when the gate opened to admit an assistant returning from an errand. Blinded by the snow she didn’t see him slip out and run.

<><>

The officer wrapped his coat more firmly round him and bent his head against the storm. Covered in snow, he was invisible in the whiteout conditions and a small creature squeaked with fright when it ran into him. He caught hold of its frozen hand. A little, thin child with terrified eyes stared up at him. He bent and spoke gently in his own language, “Was machst du hier, mein Kind?”

Not understanding, the child continued to stare.

“Komm mit mir.” He opened his coat and, before the boy suspected his intentions, caught him up in his arms and wrapped its voluminous folds round him. The boy struggled, but the warmth of the man’s body beguiled him despite his fear. He relaxed and was nearly asleep when they arrived in the barracks.

“What have you brought us, this time, Hans?” they said. “Enemy children now, is it?”

“Look at him,” said Hans, ruffling the child’s hair, “pure Aryan. He’s one of us – wasted on these people. I’ll take him home to my wife when I go on leave tomorrow. We have not been blessed with children. He’ll be like a gift.”

They gave the boy soup, thick and hot, with black bread and tea. When he’d finished he looked up at the men around him.

“Kak zovut?” someone said in fractured Russian.

“Kuryatnik,” the boy stammered.

“Khochish idi domoy, huh, Kurya… Kuryakin?”

Ignoring the mispronunciation, the boy said hopefully, “Da.”

“Hear that, Hans. Take him home. Teach him to be a good German.”

==================== 

**Author's Note:**

> Was machst du hier, mein Kind: What are you doing here, child?  
> Komm mit mir: Come with me  
> Kak (tebya) zovut: what (are you) called?  
> Khochish idi domoy: do you want to go home?


End file.
